“I’m certain you heard him incorrectly.”

“I’m certain I didn’t.”

“Yet, I recall that last evening we’d established that most men’s hearing is not all it should be.”

Several seconds of silence stretched between them, and she had to stifle the sudden urge to squirm under his steady regard. “I am not most men, Lady Catherine,” he finally said quietly. “You’re also very preoccupied.”

“I am merely anxious to get home.”

“I’m sure you are. But there’s something else. Something is worrying you.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked, forcing a light note into her voice. Damnation, just her luck to be stuck in a carriage with the one perceptive man in all of England.

“Your uncharacteristic reticence. I’ve never known you to be so… untalkative.”

“Ah. Well, that is simply because I have been engrossed in my embroidery.”

“Which I find intriguing as you detest embroidery.” Clearly he read the guilty flush she felt searing her cheeks for he added, “You mentioned your aversion to needlework during your visit to London two months ago.”

Double damnation. The man was perceptive and recalled trivial details. How utterly irritating. “I’m, er, hoping to develop a fondness for the activity. And besides that, I simply have nothing to say.”

“I see. In general-or to me in particular?”

She debated trying to put him off with a polite fib, but as he obviously wasn’t easily dissuaded, she admitted the truth. “To you in particular.”

Instead of looking offended, he nodded solemnly. “I suspected as much. About our conversation last evening… it was not my intention to upset you.”

“You did not upset me, Mr. Stanton.”

Doubt flashed across his features, raising one dark brow. “Indeed? Then you normally resemble a teakettle on the verge of boiling over?”

“Again, I must beg you to cease your flattery. In truth, ‘upset’ is merely a poor choice of word. Disappointment is closer to what I felt.”